Page 42 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

***

We’ve been back in Boston for a few days now. To say that I’m disconcerted feels like a gross understatement at this point. All that comes to mind to try to explain a seismic shift in the foundation of what I’ve grown accustomed to, in Darya and my dynamic, is flowery metaphors I’d rather be shot than voice aloud.

Still, in my mind, I think, Spring is on the horizon, two months early.

The thaw is undeniable.

Thankfully, the familiar comfort of our sparring isn’t a casualty of the change in season. An astonishing thaw has simply melted away the sharpness of stalactites, though they remain just as prone to falling in times of volatility.

If I awoke to that gone, I’d be losing a significant tether on my sanity. I’m aware of this. I’m aware, too, that between the barbed exchanges—the barbed wire wrapped in the garnet-dark velvet of Darya’s humor—and more and more moments of easy quiet, between breakfasts trading sections of the newspaper and evenings in the library, Darya’s companionship is keeping me ruthlessly going through my soldiers, doubting the very men who I expect to give their lives for my Bratva.

The deeper I delve into my role as Pakhan, the more it costs me. Each soldier I suspect, that I corner, now that the witch-hunt is unavoidable, costs me a piece of pride. Every dead-end is another lash on my back.

In the aftermath of a grueling day, there’s her. A gift I’d never have thought to ask for, let alone planned to have. It doesn’t matter if I’d conspired to force her into arranging this marriage; having legal claim to Darya’s partnership and reaping the endlessly fruitful benefits of her companionship are very different experiences. I don’t know how to thank her for it. No amount of etiquette classes from my childhood helps me put into words my appreciation for her unfiltered thoughts and her refusal to coddle. She tells me the truth. Never in my life has it been more of a priority to me than it is now.

The only way I can think of to give back to her is to tell her the truth, too. For the most part, that’s become a nightly divulging of facts I’d consider largely unimportant. Darya, however, collects them like shiny objects for a magpie. I, at least, know better than to phrase it that way to her.

Besides, I’m not much different about the pieces she’ll sometimes dangle in my face in return. If she stores away knowledge of my favorite subject at school as a kid—history, to no one’s surprise—my favorite color—blue, and no, that’s not a line about her otherworldly eyes—the animal I’m most afraid of—rabbits, because no creature ought to have red eyes, for fuck’s sake)—then I’m just as stingy about her favorite liquor—mezcal—but she’ll down any fun, fruity cocktail and regret it the morning after—her go-to bedtime story as a little girl—the Baba Yaga folklore, to no one’s surprise.

These exchanges feel as devoid of pressure as they are important. It drives home the uncomfortable realization that I’ve never known the latter without at least a tinge of the former being part of it.

Night after night, she chips away at walls she doesn’t need to be behind. It may not be fair to want to have her, every part of her I can have, but to not relinquish too much of her. Already, three weeks into this marriage, I’ve given up too much. I’ve revealed too much—to her, yes, but also to myself, unveiling sides of myself, possessive and competitive and sickeningly selfish, that I never wanted to know.

It doesn’t help that every time I am certain the reins are in my hand, Darya simply holds out her lithe, pianist’s hand, and I hand them the fuck over. As if I have no control over the matter.

I’m almost grateful I’ve got little time to think with everything going on. Nothing good lies down that road. My gut screams about it any time I deign to tune into it, as if it’s done me a damn bit of fucking good before.

***

“I’ll be home late today,” Darya mentions in passing one morning. She doesn’t even look up from the Lifestyle section to say it. Just sips on her morning espresso, and adds, like an afterthought, “There’s a Skinner’s auction. I always find the most sensational items.”

I don’t have to question its appeal to her. Darya simply harbors a soul-deep appreciation for beautiful things. I’ve taken to teasing her about admitting as much, relating to how often I catch her studying my profile. Sometimes, subconsciously, her fingers move, like she’s trying to sketch me out. That isn’t what I do now, not during mornings that have become a somewhat sacred start of the day.

My mother and Anastasia deem them profoundly uneventful, deterred by the silence. I almost feel guilty, knowing I enjoy this time all the more because of the bubble it leaves me in with Darya.

It’s also advantageous. She doesn’t look up from the paper when I hum in the direction of my own. She turns a page. I turn a page. And there’s no one in the corner, watchfully eyeing every minute expression on my face, questioning the thought I’ve just had.

Then again, it’s probably what’s got me digging my grave.

What else can I call canceling a day of meetings at the beginning of the day, and telling Stasi I’ll be unavailable for the rest of the day? She’d shot back a look that could’ve curdled milk. I can’t blame her for it, either. We had two more soldiers to question today—one of the many men I’ve ruled over for years, now reduced to suspects. The interrogations seem to be getting us nowhere. Each dead-end is another demoralizing failure. I’d told her it could wait until tomorrow.

Just to show up at the Skinner’s auction house on Park Plaza.

I’m not an impulsive man, not by any stretch of the imagination. I’m the opposite, actually. I can say that because I’ve been condemned for it more than once. But reminding myself of this fact while I’m standing outside of a building that I’d never step foot in if it weren’t for this maddening, divine woman means little because I’m going inside anyway. All that I need to buoy me is the innate understanding that it will shock and delight Darya. It’ll give me a rare chance to be present on Darya’s turf, since I understand that showing up at the atelier would cross a line in her mind.

I choose to walk through these doors, looking for her.

Who’s the magpie—her or me?

The answer declares itself when my eyes seek her out effortlessly, drawn to her by some inexplicable magnetism I’ll always wish I’d accepted sooner. I refuse to ponder again what would be different today if one thing had been different months ago. There’s no use in it.

Of course, it isn’t as if I try to search for proof before I am drawn to her, standing near the front of the room with a catalog in her hand. She’s speaking to a person in one of the staff vests, her shoulders set with an aura of authoritativeness Darya exudes when she’d like it to.

It’s eerie, though not as much as her ability to flick it off like a switch to serve her as she’d like.

Frankly, it doesn’t shock me that she turns heads every time she shifts. Her classic charcoal-grey turtleneck and the black, wide-legged trousers she wears aren’t flashy in any way. But her face? That fucking body? Even in this crowd, it’s the rings I’ve given her that sparkle on her finger.

I cut through the crowd, making my way to her.